did not take long for Leah and me to wonder—worry would be more accurate—about our future. Our grandparents had no money, and without money we weren’t going to school. And without school we would not get a decent job, and without a decent job we would be forced to do whatever manual labour we could find.
Not long after our return, Grandmother informed us we would be going to school. Leah and I were ecstatic. Then surprised.
How would our grandmother afford to send us?
As I went to sleep, on the mud floor, on the sheet, I wondered about studying, wondered where it would all lead, wondered what the end result of all my studying would be. Would I be able to go to university one day? And if so, what kind of career or job would I like to have? What would I like to do? What would I like to become? I let my mind wonder and paid no attention to the normal restrictions of life. I didn’t care if I could afford it. I didn’t care if it seemed impossible. I wanted to escape to a place where I could just dream. Just imagine. Just step into the clouds and believe that whatever was on my heart could become reality.
And for the first time, I realized what my heart’s desire was.
CHAPTER
three
It should not have been possible.
Many people had tried and failed. Yet my grandmother convinced the teacher to let us attend school without any money. In Kenya, all children are required to pay for school. On top of that, we have to pay for uniforms. We could not even feed ourselves, yet we were expected to climb out of poverty by obtaining an education we could not afford.
I was down to one meal a day. We all were. The word meal itself is a relative term. What is a meal exactly? Is it when you eat until you are full? Or could it also refer to the small portions of rice my grandmother sacrificed everything for? When we first came back to our grandparents I often wondered what it would be like to eat three times a day again like we did with our father. But the longer I stayed here, the more I found myself being grateful for the one meal we could have together. Even if it was so little. I had to learn to shift my expectations of life. No doubt I wanted three meals a day. I needed three meals a day. But life is what life is, and I found it was better to try to focus on what I did have than to focus on what was missing.
The hunger pangs left me debilitated. It was as if someone had sucked the energy from my veins. My stomach felt different pains at different times of the day. The hungrier I got, the worse I felt. I often wondered what I would do if Grandmother would not be able to provide. I could not come up with any solutions.
I often felt tired, weak. I would lie down on the mud floor in the afternoon, thinking how much I would love to play with the other children. But playing takes energy. And even at a young age I had to learn how to ration what little strength I had.
Leah found it even more difficult. I sensed something different in her. She walked slower than I did. We encouraged each other to lie down and would look into each other’s eyes, hoping to rest. Sleep is a great way to pass the time. Or to avoid it altogether.
We had no money. No chickens. No goods with which to barter. The sum total of everything we had was nothing. And yet Grandmother took us to the schoolyard. To the teacher. To hope for a miracle.
“God will provide,” she told me.
I wondered about that. Exactly how would the same God who allowed my parents to die provide for me to go to school? Grandmother had faithfully knelt down, even at her old age—I will never forget that picture of humility—and prayed to God for help.
The school here in the village looked different than schools we saw in Nairobi. City schools were made of bricks. Here, the walls were made of mud. The wooden desks looked older. The classrooms were small and cramped. None of this mattered to me, though. I would have gone to school in the open pouring rain if it meant I could have a chance at a better life.
In Nairobi, we sometimes managed to stay in school until the end of the first month. But when the teachers discovered we could not pay the fees, they would get rid of us. I wondered how long it would take them to figure that out here.
Grandmother walked ahead of us to the playground. She approached a teacher and began to speak with her. I was thankful she did not take us with her. This way, when the teacher found out we could not pay, it would be a simple shake of her head instead of escorting us out in full view of all the others.
I watched the children play hide-and-seek and especially football (what people in other parts of the world refer to as soccer). I wondered what it would feel like to run with all the others, to be with such a large group of children. I wondered what it would feel like to fit in.
Grandmother returned. I looked in her eyes for any hint of direction as to what would happen next.
“You can go to school,” she said in way that seemed she had known all along this would happen.
I stood still, as if I were a tree, unable to believe what I had just heard. It felt unique to experience shock over good news. Amazing news, actually.
Or was it?
Would this last? Did Grandmother pay her money? Would the money run out? I did not see any money change hands. I was sure of it. I swallowed. My stomach growled. I ignored the pain. I am not sure what surprised me more, that I was actually going to school or that my grandmother had been expecting this all along.
“Thank you,” I said. Leah and I hugged her.
“All right. All right,” she said. “Get going. She is waiting for you. And study hard.”
Leah and I stepped onto the school ground. It felt different, like we were trying to decide if we belonged or were only visitors.
The teacher called all the children into the classroom. We hurried to catch up. As we approached I saw the expression on the teacher’s face. Her smile, her eyes, her whole being—every part of her exuded such joy. In just that short instant, she put me at ease. Some people have that gift. She motioned with her hands for us to go inside.
Leah and I stopped at the doorway. I felt the gazes of the other children as we entered. I wondered what they were thinking. They all seemed so smart, so put together. Like they had been doing this for years.
I wished someone would say something. Their silence made my awkwardness ten times worse. We were only the centre of attention for a few seconds, but to me it felt like hours. I glanced up. I saw openings near the ceiling that let the warm air escape to keep the classroom cool. Part of me wished I could be as invisible as that air.
Two students sat at each desk. There were no empty desks, not entirely, so the teacher directed Leah and me to sit at different desks next to other students. It was an adjustment. I had assumed that my twin and I would sit together. It felt strange to be apart from her.
It was not until we walked on the concrete surface to our desks that it occurred to me why some of the children stared. It was not that we were new. Not because we were twins. (Most thought we were sisters a year apart, until we told them otherwise.) They stared at us because they felt sorry for us. We reminded them of where they once were. They stared because we did not have shoes.
Being without shoes at our huts did not bother us. No one else had shoes. Not the kids, anyway. It never occurred us that something might be wrong with going barefoot to school. We wanted shoes. Every child does. You could offer a poor African child any gift they want, suggesting a giraffe, an elephant, a zebra, the moon. Anything. Yet the answer would always come back the same—a pair of shoes.
I sat down at my desk, and Leah sat at hers. We glanced at each other for reassurance, the way sisters do when their bond connects them even if they are separated by distance. The teacher wrote on the chalkboard. Everyone focused their attention on what she taught. And Leah and I blended in, just like the way I wanted us to.
It was both fun and challenging to be in the classroom. I felt excited to learn. But I found it hard. Very, very hard. Many things I did not understand. When the morning finished, the teacher encouraged me, telling me I would